


stories where the stars shine

by coulsons-hawk (allyoop)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Bad Parenting, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fairy Tale Retellings, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, M/M, Magic and Science, Not Canon Compliant, Rapunzel Elements, Slow Burn, reference to blood, slight Robin Hood feel, tech elements mixed with fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24852667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyoop/pseuds/coulsons-hawk
Summary: Steve is a thief, but he once was a guard, and before that he was a boy who fought bullies.Bucky is a stranger, even to himself, locked in a tower faraway, but before that he was a boy who dreamed.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	stories where the stars shine

The stars were beautiful that night. They hung like the type of intricate tapestry that Bucky could stay under for hours, counting threads and connecting dots, hoping to see pictures of things more magical than his surroundings. He thought he was happy, but he also didn’t quite know what happy was outside of the well-worn books on his shelves or the stories his father had told him with whispers at his bedside. Bucky had always found hope in those stars, even after he learned that the ones twinkling on the horizon, the ones burning bright like he would scorch his fingers if he stole one, those were not stars. They were _city lights_. He could barely fathom it at first: whole cities of people living together, breathing together, dancing and playing and killing each other. His father had always empathized that part: the hurt and pain of the Outside. That’s why he was in the Tower. He wasn’t locked; he could leave whenever he wanted. But why would he? Outside was death; inside was love, and a father who protected him.

Bucky was almost eighteen now. The joy of an upcoming birthday was a glorious respite from the monotony that he was finding more and more difficult to endure. Cakes would be made, streamers would be hung, and his father would return with presents just like he always has. He had read in one of his books (one that was now memorized word-for-word) that eighteenths were special. They were when children became adults and the world became accessible. Bucky loved his Tower, loved the space he had, his overflowing bookshelves, all the toys and books and paintings that were his and his alone. But he yearned for those city lights just as much as he yearned to have his own story like the fairytales and adventures stocked on his shelf. Even now at almost-eighteen, he still read those stories under his sheets with a lantern, mouthing along the memorized words like a prayer to anyone that would listen.

He knew exactly what he wanted this year, and it wasn’t a thing at all. It was a _yes_. Yes you can go outside, son. Yes, you can see the world. Yes, you can leave without me and explore and breathe and dance and _live_ a story of your own.

This year he wasn’t going to ask for something small like he always had.

Pierce came back, calling as he always did from the ground many feet below the tower, and Bucky threw him the rope. He was pacing, twitching, barely focusing on keeping the rope weighted as his father climbed up. His father had noticed.

“Son, what is going on in that big head of yours? You’re lucky I’ve made this climb many times before. You were barely doing your job.”

“I have a lot on my mind. Sorry father.” He could barely contain his question. “Please, I want-“

“Excited for your birthday? That certainly is an excuse, but I really would rather make this climb without worrying I’ll fall right back down. You wouldn’t want that would you, my son?”

‘No, no of course not. But father, can I ask-“

“What would you do without me, really? No protection, no love. You’d barely last a day. It is good that I am here, truly.”

“Yes, you’re so kind.” Bucky repeated from habit. “But father I really want to say-“

“Sit down, I need to do the procedure as always.” Pierce handed him a basket and Bucky quickly looked through it, knowing he’d find the usual sustenance as usual. “Sit down, eat an apple, and stay still.” Pierce commanded.

He started crunching on the apple with his right hand, trying to keep his whole left side as still as possible. Pierce took out the usual syringe kit and Bucky turned his head slightly, focusing on the green apple instead. Even after all these years, the sight of his own blood still made him uncomfortable. It was too difficult to watch it leave his arm and trickle into the airtight container in his father’s hand; it was like watching a child being kidnapped or your soul being stolen away. His blood was part of what gave him _life_ and it made him shamefully faint to watch it leave in such a lifeless tube. That’s why the apples started; Pierce needed Bucky to focus on something else, to meditate on the taste and the crunch and the chew and absolutely not think about his blood. After a few trickling minutes, he felt Pierce stick a bandage over his vein and stand up. He ruffled Bucky’s hair slightly as he passed.

“You did well, my son. Even better than yesterday.”

He walked over to the blood spinner and Bucky pondered that sentence. His father always said that, always praised him as being better than the day before. But really, it wasn’t like he could get much better. It wasn’t a job, it wasn’t even a task; it was simply focusing on something else, just as he’s been doing for the last seventeen years. He really needed a change.

“Father, can I ask you something?”

”You need to speak up.” He gestured at the whirring machine. Bucky stood up and felt a slap of dizziness hit him. His father seemed to be taking slightly more blood lately, or perhaps the procedure was affecting him worse as he aged. He held the back of his chair until he found a little more steadiness and then crossed over to his father.

“I was wondering if I could ask for something different for my birthday.”

“Oh?” He gave Bucky a long stare, his eyes narrowed. “I guess an eighteenth is an unusual birthday.”

“See,” Bucky was getting excited. His father might understand. “That’s exactly what I was thinking! Eighteen is so special its even mentioned in my books. I’ll be an adult, a proper adult. And I’ve been good-“

“Yes, you have.” Pierce looked away from his equipment to give Bucky’s shoulder a squeeze.

“And I was wondering if I could go Outside, just for one night, just to walk to where the stars are and see them for myself.”

The hand on his shoulder grew sharp and painful.

“No.”

It was so quiet Bucky couldn’t help but ask. “What did you say-“

“ _No._ ” The hand was gone and so was the smile on Pierce’s face. “Why would you even- I can’t believe after all these years you would even ask that! Where’s the trust in your father?”

“I trust you-“ He tried to blurt.

“After all these loving years! That’s horrible, that is a _terrible_ thing to ask me. It’s like you don’t respect me at all-“

“That’s not what-“

“Don’t speak to me.” It was so brutally cold, so sharp and cutting that Bucky immediately snapped his mouth shut. “This is hurtful, you have hurt your father and I hope you think about that all night. Alone.” Pierce took the glass vials from the machine and walked away, determinedly not looking at Bucky. “Your birthday may be soon, but that does not mean you can ask such foolish, disgusting questions. Have you learned nothing? Have you turned a deaf ear to everything I’ve said?”

“No! I didn’t mean- I believe you, I trust you. Father, please. You’re all that is here. You’re all that is protecting me.”

Pierce turned around, a fire in his eyes. “You’re damn right. Without me you’re nothing. I found you, I saved you, I remade you.”

“And I am grateful.”

“You should be. I am a merciful man. I loved an outcast like you and have raised you like a son.” Suddenly the smile was back on his face, like the clouds have parted. “You are my son, Bucky, and I forgive you. Now come here and give your father a hug, before I leave again.”

Bucky walked to Pierce, and gave him a parting hug just like he always has. His father leaned in and whispered, menacing and low into his ear.

“Never ask me that again or I will cast you out to the monsters that feed in the night.”

“Never, father.”

Pierce pulled back from the hug, sunshine grin on his face, and descended back down the rope with a promise to bring back fresh fruit and a cake the next time he visited.

Bucky was left alone with nothing but a ragged teddy bear and a thousand old books to keep him company. Except this time, the rock in the bottom of his gut was dragging him down with a speed he didn’t quite know how to handle. For lack of a better idea, he fetched his most beloved adventure story and poured a glass of his rarely-brought, but favorite, strawberry milk. Perhaps the heroics of the dashing war hero would occupy his mind and keep his thoughts from drifting back to those beautiful city lights on the horizon.

~*~

Steve really should have known better. It wasn’t like he was expecting to become a thief. He had always fought for what he believed was right, much to his detriment as a youth. He always had more bruises than he could count, and more fighting partners than dancing partners. Not that he had cared much about that. He kept his head down as his peers swooned and wooed around him, trying to focus on his studies, hoping to get out of his minuscule town and find his way to the capitol city.

And that he did; at sixteen he was scrappy and scrawny, but he was a damn smart strategizer and the city guards couldn’t say no to his test scores no matter how few pushups he could achieve. He was lucky in sense that his brain was big even if his arms weren’t; he could map a route in seconds, come up with plan B and C and D on the fly, figure out enemy tech and adapt faster than most. Part of it was from a childhood of poverty and constant bullying; you got to think fast if you want to keep breathing. But somewhere tucked deep inside himself, tattooed on a ribcage near his heart, was a secret that he kept hidden and silent from even his mother: he had an overwhelming sense that he _was_ something special. That he was here, walking on green grass and city bricks, for a reason. That he was here to _do good_ or at least try damn hard.

And that’s how he found himself here, running as fast could with his now more experienced and muscled legs, praying there was a horse or even a slow moving kayak around the corner willing to let Steve hitch a ride. After four years serving the silent stationary guards of the castle gate, he had decided _fuck this_ and turned his focus towards the actual people he was guarding and their real problems. They didn’t need to be protected from the outside; not when starvation and poverty within the city walls was their worst enemy. So he began to steal: by necessity at first and then with a sort of guilt-tinged glee. He would take from the rich, those with horses just to look at and an extra house to hold art, and he would give to the poor. It was always food or blankets, always things too hard to trace back to their origins, things such wealthy owners could easily replace.

Unfortunately the law was not on Steve’s side, and thus he was running, breath starting to come harder and harder, from the _clink-clank_ of the guards behind him. He turned the corner, saw a horse tethered on a fence post, and shot a thankful look to the sky above him. There really was a lucky star out tonight for him. Steve ran until he was just outside the horse’s eyesight, wanting to approach it calmly and quietly. There was no use trying to win a horse’s respect with force. He bowed a little, staring it right in its dark eyes before reaching to check the saddle. With a pat on its mane, Steve climbed onto its back and urged the horse to run. It sprinted towards the forest as directed and he left the guards long behind him, still stuck on foot and in heavy armor. The bag of stolen breads felt wondrously heavy at his shoulders. Victory, quite literally, tasted good. They galloped off into the woods, plowing ahead into the expansive green until he knew no one could see them. There he disembarked his horse, gave it a large wheat roll for its trouble, and wandered off along the forest path hoping to find shelter sooner than later. Steve knew it wasn’t safe to return to the city, not until the next day at least, when the guards rotated shifts and the hunt for a lone bread-thief had died down. He fished out a hunk of bread for himself, thinking about its origin without any guilt. Some ultra-rich jerk had been hosting an elaborate party for his likeminded friends. Steve had never seen so much food for so few people. He knew from experience that the uneaten food would go to the pigs, so he stole some. There were villagers not so far from these lavish manors, stuck on sidewalks and alleyways begging for scraps while wealthy men threw leftovers to the mud. It boiled his blood and made his quick hands stuff even more into his bag; the poor could live for a week off a single loaf and the wealthy can afford to make a hundred more. So really, did he deserve to be hauled off by the guards he once stood with? Steve thought not.

He nibbled his bread, wondering just how far into the woods this path extended. It had already become shady and tangled with brambles and only the faintest trace of a human footpath was visible. It was clear that few ventured this far, but wherever there was a path Steve knew there had to be something at the end. He had heard stories, albeit weird and magical, about witches and wildlings of the forest whom snatch humans for their feasts or their mates, never to be seen again outside the forest. Steve didn’t believe in magic. This was a world too cruel and too cold for something so innocently fantastical to exist; this city was a manmade machine of politics and gold, full of men with deep pockets or titled blood who controlled it. Steve's new thieving life was just a sidepath around the usual succession of things.

After another thirty minutes of walking he almost gave up. The bushes were thorny and sharp, taking over the path with their insistent roots and claws. The trees all looked the same especially in this grey dark and any hopeful sign of human shelter was looking less and less likely. Just as Steve was considering turning back to where the forest wasn’t quite as old, the path twisted and opened onto a glade, a canopy of willow branches draped overhead and the grass was dappled with deep green moss beds. He circled around the glade, seeing no other obvious entrance but where he had come from and grinned at his luck. It was a comfortable encampment for the night. It even had a window between the green canopy to showcase the stars beyond the trees. He had always loved stars, despite his firm feet on the ground and disbelief in fantasy. Stars were so heaven-made, a drastic opposite to the grind and gear of the city he lived in. His mother always pointed at them when they appeared between clouds, showing him constellations and helping him name them. _Stars are important_ she told him _they show you stories of lives long forgotten and give you names for those special things that you feel_. He never quite understood what she meant; at the time he chalked it up to her constant fevers and wispy dreams. It wasn’t until she died, quietly in the night, that he got a small inkling of what she had been saying. Steve had walked out of that stifling hospital, already knowing she was dead, needing to escape the fake smiles and empty words of the nurses. He had looked up past the lamps and the candles and saw a star too bright to be shuttered by clouds or city glare. A sudden well of emotion had burst in his heart and filled his eyes as he continued to stare at that white blinking light. It was like a familiar hand on his shoulder, holding him in comfort before it left for good. Steve understood stars, and his mother, better from then on. They were not manmade, but the metaphors and comforts and dreams they represented were just as important to mankind.

Steve investigated a comfy looking spot of moss that tumbled across the roots of a tree and right up a rocky cliff wall. There was a lighter patch of vines and moss in between two of the rocks and he wondered if the sun didn’t quite catch between the two juts of stone. He reached his hand out to stroke the paler spot and gasped as his hand easily parted the vines. It wasn’t a trick of the eye or of the hand; unseen at most angles and hidden by the grassy green there was a large crack in the wall allowing for someone to pass through the rocky cliff onto the other side. Despite the dark and the warnings ringing in his head, Steve couldn’t stifle his curiosity, wondering just what was hiding beyond the wall.

If he had found the perfect glade a surprise, then he needed new vocabulary to name what he saw now. He had to consciously remember to breathe in and out as his eyes took in what he saw. Beyond the glade and its wall lay what he could only describe as a _fairytale_. A twisting gold-roofed tower rose up from the middle of a grassy meadow, full of more flowers than grass, its brick walls not quite as old as the huge trees that almost overshadowed it in height. It was stunning, even in the night dark, it’s metal roof glinting from the rising moon and the lichen covered brick glowing with closed morning glories and flowered vines. Steve ventured closer, seeing no other sign of humankind but the tower. He had wished for good lodgings for the night and it seemed the wish had come true. After two circles around the base of the tower, he was shocked to see there was no entrance of any sort, not even a low window. He squinted upwards and saw there was only one large window near the top and it was shuttered closed without a ladder or rope nearby. He kicked the wall in frustration, feeling stupid for following his gut rather than just staying in the normality and safety of the mossy glade. His thump echoed and after a moment he heard a rattle from above.

“Hello?”

It was faint, but human. Steve couldn’t possibly be imagining it. He kicked the wall again just to make sure.

“Father is that you? Why are you back?”

It wasn’t his mind playing tricks. There was a crack in the shutters and warm interior light was spilling from the window. The voice, young-sounding and male, was coming from the tower. Without really thinking, Steve cleared his throat and tried to deepen his voice.

“Yes, yes son it is I. Your father. I am here.” He thought he sounded ridiculous, but he crossed his fingers and waited. He was rewarded with a thick rope descending from the window to coil at his feet. Steve secured the bread bag at his shoulder and tugged on the rope. It seemed that it would hold his weight and so he begun to climb. To say he doubted his choice as he ascended was an understatement. Every other step his mind flip-flopped between climbing back down or continuing back up. Steve’s practical side won out: he was already this far and the owner of the voice would surely see reason, not kick him out for his deception, and let Steve stay the night. He reached the windowsill, threw his bag in before him, and hauled himself into the room of the tower, glad to finally have solid ground under his feet.

“Who are you?!”

Steve glanced up and almost lost his newly regained breath. He wasn’t quite expecting this beautiful man to be the owner of that voice. He was tall, but looked around the same age as Steve, with skin that seemed pale gold in the candlelight. His hair was long to his shoulders, but pulled back in a haphazard bun that somehow worked so well to accentuate the planes of his face. And what a face it was. Steve was a visual person at heart, with a mind that loved art despite his rough and tumble origins. And this man was a work of art. Dark eyes and dark lashes, brows furrowed in a frown, and pink lips that Steve was pretty sure should only exist in a painting. They were moving, rapidly and angrily, and it took him a minute to process that they were talking.

“I _said_ , who the hell are you and what did you do with my father?” The man had grabbed the nearest weapon-like object and was now brandishing a large dictionary at Steve, the intention to hurt clear in his eyes despite the weak weapon.

“I didn’t do anything to your father!” He raised his hands, trying to show that they were empty of weapon or bad intent. “I just need a place to crash tonight. I have some bad people after me and-“

“Did they follow you, are they here?” He stepped closer to Steve, dictionary raised high. “What do you want with me?”

“I didn’t even know anyone was here, I swear. I just need a room for the night.”

He hurled the tome hard at Steve’s head. “ _Liar!_ You’re from Outside I can’t trust a word you say.”

He only barely ducked the book and it grazed his shoulder. “Stop that!” The man had picked up another book and threw it at him. “I’m not lying! You’re as much of a surprise to me as I am to you!” The books were practically raining on him now and Steve kept running around the room, trying to duck behind furniture to avoid the melee. Suddenly, just as he ducked behind an overstuffed chair, the man leapt out at him and tackled Steve to the ground, pinning him with his knees and holding a stove pot raised in his arms.

“Tell me the truth or I’ll hit you. Don’t doubt me, I’ll do it.”

“I don’t doubt you.” Steve looked up at the man, trying to give him his most sincere face. “You need to believe me. I have no idea who you are or why you are here. I am just a traveler looking for shelter for the night.”

The man looked like his grip was wavering. “But you’re from _Outside_.”

“And that’s bad because?”

“Only bad things come from Outside. The Tower is the only good space, the only safe space.”

Steve saw his chance and wriggled away from the man on top of him. “I promise you, I’m not here to harm you. I even have bread to share if you want any.”

“I have bread, but thank you.” His well-trained manners kicked in almost unwillingly. “Can I offer you something to drink or-“ The man shook his head. “No, _stop_. You still broke in, still lied. You’re bad.”

Steve grimaced. He got him there. “My name is Steve.” He held out his hand, hoping friendliness would win this man over. “I used to be a city guard and now I guess you could call me a guard of the people.”

The man's eyes lit up and he reached out to shake his hand. “My name is Bucky. I took it from a book about an adventurer named Buchanan Barnes. You’re from the city?”

“Oh, the Howler series? I loved those books. Haven’t read one in a while but-“

Bucky pulled him closer by his hand. “Tell me about the city.”

The way he said it, with longing and wonder, made Steve jump to the obvious conclusion. “Have you never been? It’s so close to you, just a few hours walk from here, and much faster by horse.”

“Really?” He grinned and squeezed Steve’s hand. “All this time and it was only a few hours away…” Bucky glanced down suddenly, aware of his continued contact with Steve and how close they were standing. He quickly backed away, blushing furiously but eyes bright like he was challenging Steve to say something.

He just shrugged and returned the smile. “There’s a bit of forest to get through first, but just beyond the green is the brick and mortar of the city. I can’t believe you’ve never been. Did you get lost in the forest or something?”

“I didn’t-“ He kept glaring at Steve, his frustrating situation making a fire beneath his ribs and translating onto his face. “I’ve never been, and don’t you dare ask why.” The oft-repeated words of his father were ringing again in his ears and he was starting to reconsider how much he had already told this stranger.

“No problem, I won’t ask.” Steve looked around the room and saw a comfy looking couch. The exhaustion from the day suddenly caught up with him now that sleep was looking in sight. “But if I may, can I ask for a place to lay my head for the night? The couch looks good.”

Bucky nodded and threw a pillow from the chair at him. “I have a bed just up those stairs. You can take the couch. Just don’t uh,” The fire was starting to fade in his eyes and nervousness was creeping back in. “Don’t bother me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Swear on the stars?”

Steve was taken aback by that. He’s only heard that once before. “I swear on the stars.”

Bucky looked extremely mollified by his promise and went up the stairs with only one (or two) stolen glances back at Steve on his couch.

Steve had plopped stomach-first onto the squishy cushions, grateful for the warmth and the comfort of real furniture versus whatever moss he was going to put up with outside. He rolled himself in the blanket, too tired to move much, and let his sleepy thoughts float to this _Bucky_. It seemed Steve had met another person, much like his mother, who swore by stars like they were souls.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written January 2015 in a very long tumblr post, haha.
> 
> It's been replaying in my mind though, so I thought it would be good to copy over here on ao3 in case I wanted to continue it soonish,
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


End file.
